On the Eve of...

 

On the Eve of…

Photography is by definition mute.

C. D. Wright

Talking Pictures

It almost slipped by

without my inquiry: today,

being of sound mind

& almost sound memory,

(forget the body) I watched  

myself write September

21st and said isn’t it

the equinox soon?  The

autumnal equinox?  (saying

that word out loud: 

autumnal

in one press of breath

has some awed finality

to it, but the kind

of finality that hasn’t

arrived yet, know

what I mean?  Breathe

it and you’ll see) Because

the vernal equinox, 

back against the pelvis

of March, was and often

falls in on the 20th.  

And solstice summer:

the 20th.  So it would,

like water that seeks

its own level, be that winter

will balance the wind

of its own beginning

(and by beginning I mean

on paper, calendars, those

neat grids and numerals

and phases of moons

Jewish holidays and holy

days of obligation if

you’re marked by such

remembrances.)  It happens

it’s a full moon 

just now.  Earlier, 

around 3 a.m.,

there was a rainbow 

ring around the face

of her, and I’d wanted

to get a photo—

but I stopped

at the glass and just

watched the light

cast back in the metal

birdbath.  Lately, 

which means through

the spring and summer,

a young and hungry

black bear has been

ravaging our birdfeeders.  

And we keep forgetting

to take them to

the shed. Still, I count

myself fortunate 

that I was able to 

watch the bear late

last spring sit 

on his haunch 

and as contentedly

as any sentient,

as easy as springs 

and lubricated gears, 

open and close

the little windows 

meant for songbirds:

chickadees, nuthatches,

finches…

I don’t know where

the bear has got to

through the last

two seasons.  He’s

maybe watching me

through the leaves

deepening need

to release their green.

There’s in no way

discrete, piles of seeded

scat, studded 

with all that’s passed

through the unholy

or holy depending on

your bent, ropy colon.

I’ve got this full moon

telling me it’s going

to rain soon – at least

somewhere up in the air –

verga maybe, water

that will never fall

all the way, or the cool

beginnings of winter.  Shhhh.

I know.  I know.  

There’s one day left

of summer.  Picture it:

I thought it was lost

forever and had gone

on (to where is yours,

or anyone’s guess or 

conjecture) but it turns

out I’ve got one last day.

And a rainbow around

the full harvest moon – what

are they named?  

moon bows?  Moon 

rings?  There’s science

to it – ice 

crystals and prisms

and thin cirrus clouds,

the conditions

pristine and well timed

and not at all

random or happened

on by chance.  I wanted

the photo.  I really did.

But I wanted more

to know I’d be alone

long enough and outside

the reach of the free

moving bear who is 

the real reason I stay

inside, he who blesses

me with his squat

knee and posture

and keeps his claws

inside the tiny seed-

houses of birds and licks

his paws contentedly,

lick, lick, lick, his tongue

a blue cloud over 

his black moon maw,

falling in then coming up

falling in, and falling

in and coming up

until it’s all quite empty

or he’s had his fill,

whichever comes first

on this day the last day

of summer for anyone

who’s watching such 

moons that are full

and waning and taking

their ease between

trees and least cirrus’s 

now far-drifted east

and eased free 

as the breeze, 

as any breeze,

decrees.